


Pancakes

by Fuzzi_Fox



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Asexual Relationship, Early Relationship, Hank Swears A Lot, M/M, Rating for Language, Slice of Life, connor is confused, hank is grumpy as always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26039560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzzi_Fox/pseuds/Fuzzi_Fox
Summary: Connor is still figuring out his humanity, and tries to help Hank deal with some insomnia. (I suck at summaries. This is just a short slice-of-life story which I've been told multiple times is my forte so here you go!)
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Radiklement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiklement/gifts).



Connor sat at the small kitchen table, his elbows resting on it with his chin in his hands. He had folded two pieces of three-month-old mail and shoved it under one of the legs to stop the thing from rocking, and made a mental note to replace it. A catalog was opened before him and he had it opened to a page about various new pieces of software available for household AI, though the devices were compatible for most AI regardless of model they all operated off the same OS. He could have run a digital search nearly instantly, but there was something enjoyable about the tactile sensation of reading a physical catalogue. He had been surprised the damned things still existed and were not relics of centuries past. 

The page before had contained hardware upgrades or other  _ upgrades _ available to androids, but they felt distasteful and none he felt would suit him. He was perfectly content with his body as it was.  _ My body _ . An icon blinked in the periphery of his vision, as it had been doing with increased frequency over the months. 

“My model is adequate.” He corrected aloud, but the icon blinked again. Talking to oneself was rather human. He disabled alerts for the next thirty minutes, something he had to do damn near forty-eight times a day when a new warning was little more than a reminder that the alerts had come back online. 

He looked at the list of upgrades, one of them catching his attention. It would allow an android to experience a pseudo sleep-wake cycle, advertised as a way to make a household android feel less foreign if it had to sleep like the rest of the family.  _ If they had to sleep. _ He thought aloud, glad that no icon appeared. He ran a search, and found that multiple providers had created this sleep software. Some claimed they could allow an android to experience dreams. Another promised the very human-like feeling of being groggy in the morning and miming drinking coffee from their exclusive branded mug would end the  _ groggy _ phase of the program. He disliked that one promise. He enjoyed feeling alert in the morning. 

But the nights were long. He had gotten into the habit of reading physical books at night. Managing to underclock his processor to force himself to read it line-by-line rather than scan the page wholesale. On average he could finish a book a night this way. But he had finished every book in Hank’s house, and hadn’t had the time to go to the bookstore on his own. Television lacked any real appeal to him, little more than cop dramas so absurd he thought they needed a new name since they had so little to do with the actual profession. The medical shows were just as bad, quick searches confirming his suspicions over glaring errors. Dramas felt fake. Documentaries had little new information for him. Though the cooking channel was fascinating when it ran actual programs, but at night it mostly played contests which lacked any real appeal. 

A clatter drew his attention and he frowned. He thought Hank had finally managed to sleep, though how it was possible to sleep through the television in the bedroom was a mystery and he made another mental note to investigate human abilities to sleep with a noisy environment. He got up from the table and around the corner to Hank’s room, standing in the doorway pending an invitation in. 

“Hank? Are you perhaps struggling to sleep?” He asked. 

“No shit Sherlock. What fuckin’ clued you in?” Hank replied. He reached for the remote, tapping angrily at the buttons. “Ain’t shit on the TV to watch lately.”

“Perhaps I could make you a cup of tea?” Connor suggested. 

“A beer.” Hank corrected. 

“Alcoholism is often researched to contribute to insomnia, and acute intoxication can impair proper sleep cycles.”

“Ah shut the fuck up.” Hank waved his hand, reaching for an empty plastic nip from the bedside and mimed as if to throw it, setting back down instead. “Fine. Give me your damned tea. Any fuckin’ ambien left in the cabinet?” 

“I will go check.” Connor replied. He was glad for something to help pass the night, though he did hope that Hank would be agreeable to pass on excess alcohol for the rest of the night. He clicked the gas stove on, placing the old stained kettle with a bent nozzle-cover and missing the lid the water chamber, onto the burner and setting the flame to the proper side. He dug through the cabinets for the box of tea, getting a bag of chamomile out and dropping it into a mug. He wondered if there was a software update to allow him to experience the relaxation sensation that chamomile supposedly caused. He saw the alert icon again and snoozed the alerts again, surprised that he had wasted a full half-hour staring at that catalogue. 

He had already cleaned the kitchen earlier in the night and stood before the stove to wait for the water to boil, wondering when he had grown so impatient with stretches of time without something to occupy himself. He turned the knob to shut off the burner as soon as the kettle started to whistle before it could reach a full screech. He remembered once on one of the cooking shows a man complaining about how Americans always used water that was too hot. He gave the teabag a cursory tug on the paper tag, watching the water start to take on a brown tinge. Recalling the same episode he set a mental timer for three minutes, checking the medicine cabinet. 

Connor already knew that the ambien prescription was long exhausted, and that Hank’s doctor had refused to refill it until he kicked his alcohol habit. On his last trip to the pharmacy he had walked past the sleepytime cold medicine that Hank had requested, causing a significantly red iron, and purchased melatonin instead. He poured two of the tabs into his palm, and returned to the kitchen. He filled a second glass with some water, and when his three-minute timer expired removed the tea bag to dispose of it. He walked back to Hank’s room, pausing at the doorway again. 

“Don’t hover like a fuckin’ ghost. You already know you’re allowed in stop being an asshole.” Hank barked. Connor took the invitation, and walked first to the side of the bed Hank preferred to sleep on and set down the water, tea, and two tablets. 

“The ambien was gone, so I brought you two melatonin.”

“Of fuckin’ course.” Hank complained, but took the two pills. “Thanks.” He added with a nod. “This chamomile shit ain’t half bad.” he added, sitting himself up enough to lean against the wall and hold the mug without risking burning himself. The headboard had broken some time ago, and Hank had been very insistent that a new bed was unnecessary and fixing the damn thing was a waste of time just to make it look good. 

“Maybe a nightly chamomile would benefit you more than sleeping pills with alcohol?” Connor suggested. 

“Stop hoving and sit your ass down.” Hank complained. He sipped the tea, and grunted as the mattress shifted with the droid sliding into the bed. “I’ll try the damn melatonin and tea for a few nights if it’ll make you shut the fuck up about it.” He replied. He flicked through channels with his free hand and complained again about the lack of anything on, a feeling Connor could certainly agree with in the late hours. 

“Perhaps a movie would be nice?” 

“Ah, why the hell not. Melatonin takes forever to kick in anyway. We got any popcorn left?” Hank asked. 

“I did buy some on our last grocery trip. Would you like me to make a bag?”

“Nah. Gotta take a piss anyway, I’ll do it.” Hank waved his hand and threw the blankets back. It was the middle of winter, but Hank still slept in his boxers and a white tee shirt. He scratched at his ass and left the bedroom. Connor reached across the bed for the television remote and brought up a movie-ap. He was partial to historial movies himself, and while he would never admit it out loud he had discovered Hank had a soft spot for sci-fi. He was growing partial to the genre, and wondered if the thought would cause the error icon to appear yet again. He also wondered if the catalogue had any software to disable the cursed alerts completely. At least Hank had sprung for flesh-patches to cover the icons on his temples  _ so I don’t gotta see that fuckin’ blinkin’ anytime you act human. _ He idly reached up to scratch at it, surprised at the quality. 

He could hear the popping corn from the kitchen shortly after the toilet flushed. He picked an older sci-fi movie he knew that Hank liked, and for himself was a curious study as to how people further in the past envisioned their future. The various forms of android were always a curiosity. Hank returned shortly after and set the popcorn on the end table to climb back into bed. Connor noticed that despite having several beer bottles still in the fridge. Hank had returned without one. 

“Pick a movie?” Hank asked. 

“I have.” Connor nodded, and gestured at the television. 

“Ah, Event Horizon. Make sure you got the right one, another fuckin’ movie with that name is some fuckin’ horror movie. Weird shit. I liked it. I’ll shoot ya if you tell anyone.” He rambled. 

“Your secret is safe with me. I do not believe this one is the horror movie you mentioned, but rather, the version that came out last year. I saw that it was now available on your streaming service. We have not watched this movie since it was in the cinema.” Connor replied. Hank grunted, habitually setting the popcorn bowl between them. Connor humored him, grabbing a few pieces and enjoying the tactile sensation of rolling them around his fingers. 

“Good movie.” Hank agreed. The credits started, Hank setting the volume up and despite having taken the over-the-counter sleeping pills Connor suspected that he was not intending on attempting sleep until after the movie. “Saw that magazine on the table. Any good android toys catch your attention?” 

“Actually yes.” Connor answered, surprised at the question.  _ Would the icon appear at that? _

“Well?”

“I find myself restless at night, if there is not a case requiring extended attention. They have software available to allow me to experience a sleep-wake cycle.” Connor explained. 

“Told ya you’re more human than you like to admit, if saying so doesn’t hurt your robot pride.“

“I do not experience pride.”  
“Oh bullshit, and you know it. You’re damn proud of yourself when you do something right.” Hank waved his hand like a mock-slap before grabbing a fistfull of popcorn. “You’ve never seen your face after you re-create a meal from those cooking shows you love.” Hank reached over again and gave Connor a push on the arm. 

“Perhaps you’re right… I do find a sense of happiness in” (making a meal that causes you happiness) “a job well performed.” 

“Who knew you were such a softie. I’ll need to get you an apron.” Hank teased him before grabbing another mouthful of popcorn. Connor watched him do so, and pondered for a bare moment a hardware addition that would allow him to experience taste. But watching Hank chew caused him to immediately cast out the idea. Far too messy. His analyzer was adequate. Though he did enjoy rolling the popcorn around in his fingers if he increased the sensitivity of the tactile pads on his fingers. Required a bit of adjustment to his processor to prevent overheating, but slowing other aspects of himself made enjoying the movie feel more real. 

They talked, about work, about the android software and hardware available in that catalogue, about the new food truck up the road that sold the best damn meatball subs Hank had ever eaten. By the time the credits to the movie began to roll it seemed the efforts to get Hank drowsy were starting to work, and Connor observed that his head was back against the pillow and his breathing was starting to slow. He felt his mouth twitch into a smile, nodding at a job well done. He started to shift off the bed, the old mattress creaking and the bedframe groaning at the movement. 

“Leavin?” Hank mumbled. Connor looked over his shoulder and saw that Hank was not quite asleep yet. 

“Sorry. I had not intended to wake you.” He apologized. 

“Just... you’re really gonna make me fuckin’ ask aren’t you? Goddamnit. Gettin all fancy with your humanity and you still can’t figure out the basics.” Hank cursed, shaking his head. “Just fuckin’ stay. I could use your company. There.” He continued, rolling over to his other side and pointing the remote at the television again. 

“Oh.” Connor replied, hesitating, grimacing at the red icon in the corner of his vision as he felt a convoluted mix of emotions clogging up his processing power. The icon vanished when he once again snoozed his error warnings. 

“I sleep better when I’m not alone with my own fucked up brain.” Hank admitted. “Besides. Didn’t you say night sucks unless you got something to do?”

“That is an accurate statement.” 

“Then just stay in the fuckin bed. Besides, if you don’t the dog will jump on the bed and drool on the pillow.” Connor nodded, trying to avoid prolonged eye contact, or as Hank would often put it  _ that fuckin’ creepy staring. _ Another movie was started, this one having the grainy quality of something at least four decades old, the music that accompanied the credits just as outdated, and the remote was set down on the bedside table. 

“Perhaps then the sleep software is a good investment? It would allow me to accompany you to aid your sleep, while also replicating sleep for myself. So my continued presence would not cause you any degree of distress.” Connor nodded at the end of his explanation. 

“For a fuckin’ android you sure are dumb sometimes.” Hank grumbled. 

“What do you mean?”

“Would I ask you to stay in the fuckin’ bed if you were bothering me?” Hank asked. Connor hesitated again, then shook his head. 

“No. Perhaps not. I am… pleased, that you find me non-distressing.”

“Jesus you’re dense.” Hank groaned, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You really  _ are _ gonna make me spell it out huh? Took me a goddamned year to admit my feelings to my ex-wife before our first date yet you got me spillin’ my guts. I enjoy your company Connor, haven’t you figured that out yet? You really think keepin’ you around was just for your protection?” Hank asked. “Shit you’d be safer stuffed into one of the charging bays at the station. Surprised you haven’t figured that out.” 

“I enjoy your company as well.” Connor replied, searching his programming for any code that would make him bond with whomever he was assigned to, something likely to aid his job. Or hinder it? He regretted snoozing his alerts. Sometimes the agitating red could tell him what was deviation from his programming and help him better identify his becoming more  _ human _ . Traits that seemed to make Hank happy. And himself happy. He brought his hand up and rubbed at the silicone-covered circle in a mock-gesture of a human with a headache. It felt oddly cathartic to help him work through his conflict in his programming and decided to cease the search before he trapped himself in the need for a reboot. 

“Goodnight Connor.” Hank replied, a genuine smile on his face. 

“Goodnight Hank.” Connor watched the movie, underclocking his processor to better pay attention without any restlessness. He could sense Hank’s respirations slowing, his body temperature dropping a degree, and his heart rate slowing. Sleeping looked so peaceful. He wondered if the software would cause himself the same degree of rest. Would it allow him to dream? Could an android genuinely dream? The questions started to continue but the icon started to blink again as the snooze function wore out its timer and he decided not to reset it. 

Night passed, Connor surprised at how content he felt lying in bed next to Hank. He would occasionally roll over, or grumble a bit. He always managed to hold his tongue and keep himself from whispering his name into the night, not wanting to risk waking him just to see if he was awake. It was four movies later, with light filling up the broken shades that covered the eastern bedroom window, that Connor decided he could gamble getting up. 

He fought the urge to make the bed where he had been lying, knowing it was just likely to wake up Hank. The icon blinked yellow, and he wondered why this of all things was causing a warning? He walked through the doorway, trying not to agitate the creaky door much and entered the kitchen. 

He reached for the coffee pot, bringing it to the sink. He swirled it with some water and dumped it, filling it again to fill the chamber of the old machine. He wondered why Hank never bothered to get himself something more modern, better at drawing out the flavors and caffeine of coffee, but set about setting up the machine to Hank’s preferences. He wondered if a liquid-sensing hardware addition would be nice, the idea of drinking a cup of coffee in the mornings had its appeal. Even if it did require emptying a liquid chamber that would need frequently cleaning.  _ Yellow _ . Why the warning if the company that build him offered the upgrade he was thinking about? He shook his head, setting his mind back on his task. 

The old stove was gas-powered, a rare outdated technology that Connor unambiguously enjoyed. The cooking shows always lamented the old ways of cooking, that the modern electric stoves just couldn’t compete with cooking over a fire. He wondered if this was a callback to humanity’s time as cavemen, where fire meant food and safety and warmth, an old instinct that wouldn’t fade for thousands of years yet. 

The gas stove clicked, but the pilot light was out. He shut it off, sensing the trace amount of unignited glass. He pulled a box of matches out of a drawer, again amused at the outdated way Hank chose to live, and struck one. He clicked the stove again, using the match to light it. The heat was sensed by his still over-clocked hand and he drew it back with a hiss, shaking it. The pain sensors were a minor update that only required a patch, not a full installation, and despite the unpleasantness of it the sensation was important. Without jerking his hand back, he risked damaging the sensitive material that coated the sensors on his hands and that coating was not cheap to replace. 

The cast-irons pan was pulled over the fire, and while it heated up Connor gathered the things he needed. The half-pack of bacon leftover from the morning before, eggs, flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, and milk. He wondered when humans collectively decided to stop using cow’s milk, the odd protein-altered soymilk in the cardboard box somehow a perfect recreation of the taste. Yet humans still needed their eggs and meat. A yellow icon, and he shrugged it off, deciding to perform the searches later to allow himself the comfort of cooking. He placed the bacon in the still-cold pan, a trick from one of his shows, and started to beat up his pancake mix. When it was a lumpy combination he smiled, setting the container down. The bacon crisped and was set on a plate, the pancakes cooked in the bacon fat. 

The loud bedroom door caused him to look over and smiled, 

“Good morning!”

“Good morning sunshine. I see you’re full of piss and vinegar at dawn.” Hank greeted. “Smells damn good in here, what are you up to?”

“I decided to start breakfast. Coffee is ready, in the pot.” 

“Fuckin’ miracle worker you are. Thanks.” Hank replied. He lifted a mug out of the cabinet after going first to the sink out of habit, but recalling Connor never let his dirty dishes last. He poured himself a mug of coffee, nearly offered one to Connor, and clicked the machine off. “Uh. Need help? I can pour the cereal.” Hank offered. 

“Nearly done. I used up the rest of the bacon, and made some pancakes. I need to grocery shop, so I lack any fruit or juice.”

“Nothin’ wrong with a classic diner breakfast.” Hank waved his hand. Connor smiled, setting the pancakes and bacon on a new clean plate, shutting off the stove, and placing the grease-coated plate in the sink with the empty batter container, and grabbed silverware. He sat down across from Hank, his hands folded neatly together atop the table, elbows however, were not. 

“Did you sleep well last night?” Connor asked. 

“Best damned sleep I’ve had in years.” Hank replied, stuffing a large bite of pancake in his mouth. “These are fuckin’ good. Bacon’s perfect too. We should open our down damn diner and say fuck this cop shit. I’m gettin too old for it anyway.” Hank grumbled. He talked about quitting or retiring at least once a week, so the comment left little impact on Connor. But the idea of opening a diner and getting to cook for strangers left him feeling  _ happy _ . And a blinking red icon. He snoozed it. 

“Perhaps… perhaps I can help you again, tonight?” Connor offered.

“Does that help include coffee and breakfast the next morning?” Hank asked. 

“Of course.” 

“That sounds fuckin’ perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I do ship these two, but in an asexual way. I do hope you enjoyed this goofy little slice of life. And the idea of Connor ending up enjoying cooking shows and cooking tickled me.


End file.
